


Crutch

by IamShadow21



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Bit Not Good, Death But Not Really, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Not NHS Approved, OTP Does Not Have To Mean Sex, PTSD, Psychosomatic Does Not Mean Faking It, Reichenbach Falls, Surprises, Tea, This Is Your Brain On Sherlock, You Can Be Fucked Up Without Being A Woobie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:41:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's in his head, but it's really not as simple as all that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crutch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [woodencoyote](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=woodencoyote).



> Spoilers for all of Sherlock and fusion with ACD's story 'The Empty House'. Bonus opening quote from 'House', though no knowledge of that show required.
> 
> Written for the scrumptious woodencoyote, whose work I have adored from afar, for the Make Me A Monday prompt: _John had thought his pyschosomatic limp was gone, but one day his leg suddenly gives out entirely and won't support his weight. He's alone, and tries to recover without anyone discovering his weakness._

>   
>  House: You like messing with people. That's why you're here now. Now maybe you think that your batteries are powered by God, maybe you don't. Either way, you enjoy what you do.  
> Boyd: Yes. I like helping people. I get a rush when I see the look on their faces when they realize their burdens are gone.  
> House: Hmm, but you make sure you're in the next state by the time the endorphins wear off, and the arthritis comes back.  
> Boyd: That doesn't happen.  
> House: Oh, you do extensive follow up studies?  
>  _House, Season Two Episode 19, ”House vs God”_   
> 

  


***

It's a high, and he knows it. Like the first time he fired a gun, the first time he popped a little white pill to get him through his medical degree, the first time he killed a man in cold blood with a clear conscience. But like all highs, it comes crashing down abruptly and leaves him shaking, weak, gasping for breath. Clinging to his traitorous limb like a life-raft.

On the floor beside him, the milk glugs slowly out of the carton.

If Sherlock, curled on the couch in a between-cases sulk, hears him fall, he gives no sign. When John finally brings the tea, Sherlock lets it go cold, despite the fact that he had asked for it in the first place.

***

It's been a long, slow week, with nothing but patient after patient with the flu, or conjunctivitis, or wailing toddlers fighting the pre-school immunisation with fists and tears and snot. Everyone is snappy, the waiting rooms are full and the urn in the tiny staff kitchen broke this morning.

He's turning back to his desk to buzz in the next patient when it happens. A bolt of lightning, and he's suddenly clinging to the nearest thing he can reach to stop his inevitable descent. A concussion at work; that's all he needs.

He remembers performing quick and dirty surgeries under fire, those he helped, those he couldn't. _This is nothing like Afghanistan_ , he thinks, miserably. He isn't making a difference, prescribing bed rest and Lemsip, picking gravel out of children's knees and recommending cortizone creams for rashes.

He's managed to get back in his chair by the time Sarah opens the door to check on him.

“Not asleep again, then?”

Her voice is light but her eyes are tired and impatient.

He makes some vague apology. Considers quitting for a heady moment, but he can't forget the dwindling funds in his bank account, the worn soles on his shoes, and above all, his pride. For all that Sherlock casually hands over his card or his cheques or a wad of cash with no more thought than dismissing an obvious case as _boring_ , actually taking it is a level he despairs sinking to almost as much as he fears the lure of a bottle.

Despite the extra cost, he knows the Tube is beyond him that evening. He hands over too many pounds to a disinterested cabbie, then takes the seventeen steps as cautiously as he did on that first day.

***

As there was post-Afghanistan, now there is post-Moriarty. Post-Sherlock. Post-everything about his life that seemed to give it some colour.

Sarah and he peter out. She gently tells him he isn't needed any longer at work. Then she volunteers to prescribe him something. He bursts out laughing, then wonders after a few moments why his face is wet. She watches him with concern, then offers him cab fare home. He refuses, slowly wending his way home, his cane clicking on tarmac and concrete and pressed steel with every step.

The cane taunts him.

 _Psychosomatic_ , Sherlock's voice scorns.

 _Sit down, the leg must be hurting you_ , Mycroft seems to insinuate.

 _I need it_ , he mutters back, guilt and shame warring with the overwhelming feeling of uselessness.

***

His hair goes from sandy to grey. His hand becomes callused; not from gun, scalpel or pen, but from the cane's rough caress. He stops writing his blog, stops reading the papers. Cuts his food bill down to a shoestring and loses enough weight for his eyes to look just as hollow and shadowed as he feels inside.

Somehow, three years pass, until the day he drags himself home after being knocked down by a bicycle courier. He's thinking only of the supplies he'll need as he hauls himself up to the flat: gauze, antiseptic, paracetamol, and a blessed, blessed cup of tea.

He's not prepared for the cyclist to be waiting for him, staring into the fire. He's not prepared for the face that greets him when he lets out a startled inquiry.

The cane drops to the floor with a clatter at Sherlock's self satisfied smile. His leg buckles, throwing him forward in protest.

Sherlock catches him.

Strong hands help him onto the sofa, unfamiliar, sincere apologies meet his ears, and an almost forgotten rush swells and breaks inside him, pushing his lips into a rusty smile.


End file.
